My Kouhai, Your Kouhai
by coffeelatte
Summary: In what twisted world were teenagers allowed to traipse around, adding a '-sama' to the end of some silly boy's name? In what twisted, cruel reality did a self-pompous bastard call himself Ore-sama and get away with it-? Apparently, Ayaka noted, torn between dry humor and biting irritation, the very same world she existed in. AtobeOC.
1. Kouhai Wars

**A/N: **Alright guys – I've been so shaky all over FFnet, something I really didn't want to become! But honestly, life just kind of took over, but I've buckled down and decided that hey, I love FFnet, I love my readers, and I don't want to leave them hanging! For those of you waiting on my 'RISING AMBITIONS' story, just wait a little more for the next chapter – and this is the original My Kouhai, Your Kouhai story, that will be entirely rewritten with my now-bettered writing, and perhaps a few more plot twists and definitely, hopefully longer. If you want the previous version of the story, I have it all nice and saved, so just PM me!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own PoT.

* * *

Hyotei Gakuen was a school defined by prestige: its students, its teachers, and even those who simply lived _near_ the school all had one thing in common: a disgusting, sinful amount of wealth. Funded by generous donors and eager parents and all-too successful alumni, Hyotei had the ability to provide the state-of-the-art equipment for each and every artistic need of each and every student.

That being said, its music department was no exception: it was known to student musicians all across Japan that Hyotei Gakuen had perhaps the most enviable resources for the budding musician. Soundproof walls and structures specifically designed to enhance sound dynamics and a plethora of critically acclaimed teachers were only a _part_ of what it had to offer its students, and it went without say that the practice rooms were god-sent gifts when it came to catering to the needs of the especially passionate.

It was in one such room where _everything_ began – room number 21, identical to all other practice rooms save for the brass '2 – 1' hung upon its oak door.

On an ordinary Tuesday, if one happened to walk by the room, one would be caught by the slow, sweet melody singing from within; the tune filled and seeped through the air as fingers danced nimbly across polished black and white keys, moving with a sense of practiced ease. The notes of a genius composer from centuries ago trickled out from the massive instrument, controlled with a natural air of perfection; the player, she was perhaps the most enraptured of all by the music she produced herself.

A small smile – the faintest quirk of her lips, as though it had simply snuck onto her features without her knowing – graced her expression-

-abruptly, the music stopped.

The fingers froze, hovering above the keys, splayed in the position that would have continued the melody. Instead, eyes darted to the watch on her wrist, and horror pooled in her eyes upon tracing the needles to the current time.

…Study hall for third-years had ended _ten minutes ago._

Maka-sensei would _kill_ her! It was the third time she was late this _week_-

-the girl bolted from her seat, scrambling to stuff the black binder from which she'd been reading her notes into her bag. Just as she did, though, a single packet of paper fluttered to the floor. She bent down to pick it up, whereupon her eyes widened once more, and a cross between terror and exasperation flitted over her expression.

'Prokofiev's Third Piano Concerto.'

* * *

"Choutarou – Ore-sama is being quite gracious, here. Do you not agree?"

A swift, hurried nod from the tall boy confirmed Atobe's question. Atobe nodded imperiously before continuing. "Ore-sama is hereby allowing you skip practice every Friday from here on out in order to practice for your-" Atobe paused in his self-preening motions, brows raised carelessly. "-what were you doing again?"

Choutarou's eyes, Atobe noted with some amusement, _literally lit up_, lips stretched in a smile so large he was sure it must physically hurt. Choutarou sat up a little straighter in his chair, though he grimaced at the twang in his back – he had, after all, been frozen in his seat, listening to Atobe explain (in detail) of his generosity for the past fifteen minutes.

"To practice for the concours, buchou!" he murmured excitedly, positively _beaming_ with pride.

Atobe nodded whimsically, with the sort of indulgent interest given a screaming toddler from a mollifying mother.

To Choutarou, however, these 'concours' (more specifically, the Hyotei Annual Music Concours – H.A.M.C.) were quite important, it was easy to see.

Hyotei was a school far above the level of any ordinary middle school; following its tradition of grandeur, the school's music department was considered one of the best in the nation. In the name of 'good fun' – and to simultaneously stress just _how_ good the department was – the school hosted a competition for its music students every year, with divisions based on grade and instrument.

In the end, there were twelve winners – a player from each grade, and instrument family: percussion, wind, brass, and strings.

Choutarou, with his talent at the piano, would be competing in the percussion division for second years.

Nominees and the resulting final participants had been released last week; already, most of them had booked the music rooms for private practice sessions during study hall – and Choutarou, excited (thrilled, really) about it all, had promptly explained it all to his captain. He'd asked, quite tentatively, because this was _Atobe-buchou_, and who knew what he allowed and what he didn't, if he could perhaps skip a few tennis practices for the next few weeks in order to practice.

All the participants had been announced last week, and most of them had private, self-study sessions during study hall, and had booked one of the music practice rooms for themselves. After all, Hyotei had the facilities to back them up – why not use them?

Atobe, true to his fashion, had shown up in a glorious declaration of his abounding generosity, to inform Choutarou of the days he would be allowed to skip.

Choutarou, of course, was ecstatic – he'd be practicing right now, even, if it wasn't that he was waiting for a certain senpai of his to deliver him the music sheets he'd asked her to acquire for him. She was supposed to have met him a few minutes in front of his room, but she seemed to have forgotten-

_**Bang-**_

Atobe paused in his ministrations. What on _earth_ made such an unseemly entrance?

And there, by the open doors, stood a girl whom Atobe noted to be wearing the third-year badge on her cardigan. Wide-eyed with an expression of a sheepish grimace, she clutched a black binder to her chest and an aura of haste to her being; her hair was an absolute frightful _mess_, drooping hear her elbows, a scramble of darkest black, and her cardigan hung haphazardly open on her shoulders.

Atobe, brows raised and a roll of his eyes ready, was quite ready to inform the plebeian that she was _in the wrong_, only to widen his eyes when she promptly walked over to Choutarou with a grin and a greeting hug

"Sorry, Chou-chan," she said, and Atobe thought that he must be _hearing things_ at the familiar tone she used with _his_ kouhai. "I was preoccupied."

There were, Atobe concluded upon making a quick review of the happenings in this room, precisely two solutions.

One being, of course, that this girl was Choutarou's senior, judging by the third-year badge and the binder labeled 'Music Sheets' in her arms, and this was all simply a friendly affair.

The second: she was some miserable twat who was wasting Choutarou's time by clinging to him, wasting the precious time that _Atobe_ had given to him.

And Atobe, the reasonable and rational person that he was, came to the conclusion that was _obviously_ correct.

The second.

He could see it all now: third year and pompous and arrogant, she'd lured in Choutarou with her wily smiles and long hair – Choutarou liked long hair, didn't he? (This question had been raised by a fun-seeking Gakuto who had wished to see just how red Choutarou could blush).

Well. This wouldn't do.

No, not at all.

Atobe coughed loudly, and purpose was strung all about the single action. When Choutarou whirled around to face his captain, Atobe was waiting with an elegant brow raised, and watched in pleasure as the other boy's expression mingled into that of realization. "Oh!" he exclaimed, a sweet smile on his lips.

Poor, poor naïve Choutarou, Atobe tsked, eyeing the silver-haired boy through pitying eyes. As his Captain, it was only _proper_ that he protect the young bird from the _indecent advances_ of those like this girl, he affirmed in his mind

…Well, that, and the fact that Choutarou seemed to be smiling brightly at the girl with something akin to _adoration_ twinkling from his eyes – the adoration and respect that is all, completely, rightfully _his._

It wouldn't do, not at all, to have Choutarou respect another senpai so much – Atobe believed that everyone on his tennis team should look up to him, and only him. This was, after all, how he kept the team in line; _n__ot_, of course, that he was being vain, or anything of the sort. Of course not.

Oblivious to his Captain's inner thoughts, Choutarou barreled onwards in a stunning display of excitement: "This is my tennis team Captain, Atobe-buchou, and this is my senpai in the music department – Ayaka-senpai!" Choutarou introduced, with a cheery bob of his head.

And unbeknownst to both Atobe and Choutarou, the so-called 'Touda Ayaka' was having some internal conflicts of her own.

After all, it was _Atobe Keigo_ who stood in front of her now.

Atobe Keigo, the _king_ of the Hyotei kingdom, who had single-handedly established his regime in but a day in his first year. Rome wasn't built in a day, they say, but obviously, they had never met a king like Atobe, who'd have no problem burning Rome to the ground and rebuilding an even bigger empire in _half_ a day. Just a peek into Atobe's features, and Ayaka could swear up and down that she could see the accompanying golden crown and scepter, that she could see the sea of people behind him, bowed down to the emperor above them all.

And, well, as humiliating as it was, Ayaka had been one of the other _thousand _girls who had found Atobe Keigo immensely charming and beautiful and _perfect_, a real life render of the fairy tale Prince Charming_._ That is, she _had_, in her first year at the school.

Who could blame her, though? In all the foreign air and newly-expanded campus of middle school's first year, Atobe Keigo had waltzed in as though he were the lord of them all; wealth, prestige, and a famous name dangled carelessly from his fingertips like edges to the sword he'd use to conquer the land, and the accompanying smirk had seemed just so _cool_ back then.

Add the fact that he _obliterated_ the then-regulars of the tennis team and planted himself as the new leader of the entire club, and he really _was_ like a living legend.

And then Ayaka had grown older and wiser and a bit more sensible, realizing that her 'infatuation' was rather pointless in the end, because this was Atobe Keigo, who was more myth then man. That, and she'd decided that the piano was much more worthy of her complete, utmost devotion.

The second time Ayaka had had a reason to pay attention to Atobe Keigo was just last year – when he'd been responsible for damaging Choutarou's precious wrist to the point where he'd had to withdraw from last year's concours.

Ayaka had met Choutarou in the beginning of her second year – as the already-established member of the music department, it had been inevitable that she'd meet the brilliant newcomer. And once she'd seen how incredibly _talented_ Choutarou was, she'd immediately staked a claim over his music and his career in the department, 'taking him under her wing.' It was all a bit silly and horribly dramatized, she realized now, but she'd been just so excited at seeing a talent such as his in their department.

As an avid participator of the concours every year, she'd been ecstatic once they announced that Choutarou, too, would be entering in his freshman year.

That is, until he'd come to her with his wrist heavily bandaged and a bright, bright grin on his lips.

"_I broke my wrist perfecting my scud serve – Atobe-buchou helped me with it! The doctors said I wouldn't be able to play in the concours, but senpai, see, I finally finished the serve! I'm so happy – is it okay?"_

And Ayaka, crestfallen as she'd been, hadn't been able to say a word.

Not when darling Choutarou with his naïve, beaming expression and all the pride of the world worn on his lips, came up to her and asked 'Is it okay?'.

Atobe was responsible for it all; the Captain who had pushed his player so far to simply develop a measly_ serve_ (whatever a serve even was – hell if she knew anything tennis or sport related), who had forced Choutarou to drop out of the concours in his debut year.

Ayaka gathered up her nerve, then, to greet Atobe-

"Well, then, Choutarou. Ore-sama shall be at the courts, in _better company_." Atobe flourished his sentence with a twirl of his hand, as if he were _preening_ himself, before walking out of the room – but not before sliding Ayaka a smug, arrogant look.

Ayaka blinked once, twice, before the reality of it all settled in.

'Better company'?

Was he implying that she wasn't good company?

Was he-

Oh, he was.

…What a _prick_.

* * *

As the week wore on, Atobe found his beautiful hair growing even _grayer._ Not from stress, necessarily, but from pure, illogical irritation. Irritation, at that stupid girl who kept taking Choutarou's precious tennis-allotted time, and irritation at the fact that _his hair was growing grayer._

And should a certain freshman brat see him with this crown of silver, he was sure to receive a remark following the lines of "Growing old, Monkey King?"

And then that would give him _more_ gray hairs.

Atobe had come to terms that Choutarou could, indeed, have another senior whom he viewed with utmost respect; but, it went without say, that he would always have the largest amount of adoration and reverence from anyone and everyone.

Why, he was _Atobe Keigo._

He could come to terms with the fact that she would be influencing his blank mind with her dark, wily traits.

But he could _not_ accept her intruding on Atobe's majestic tennis practice.

The courts were something of a shrine to Atobe – everyone who wore the tennis jersey knew that the jacket was a sign of _servitude_ to Atobe. That when he snapped his hand, everyone was _obliged_ to scream and chant his name. That when he told people to run laps just because he damn well felt like watching people run in a circle, they'd turn and ask 'how fast?'. That when he made people go on various errands _just for shits and giggles,_ they obeyed eagerly.

Atobe was a _god_ on campus, and he was the _god of gods_ in the tennis courts.

And this girl – this girl right here – had the daring nerve to intrude upon his holy grounds, beckon Choutarou to the gates to talk to her, and promptly launch into a discussion about the stupidest things in existence.

_Such_ nerve.

Ah – here she was now, right on time. Atobe watched from his imperial perch in the bleachers, shaded by a silent Kabaji holding an umbrella over his head. He watched, through narrowed eyes, lips pressing together in a tight line.

Just _look_ at her.

Walking around as if she _owned_ the place – and that would be hard now, wouldn't it, because it was _he_, Atobe Keigo, who owned the courts.

And from the distance, Atobe could hear the fierce whispers of club members, as they were always wont to gossip:

_"Oi! Did you hear? Ohtori landed himself some hot third year girl!"_

_"Did you see Ohtori's new girlfriend?"_

_"She's here every day to see him! She must like him a lot!"_

_"I didn't know Ohtori was so good!"_

_"Hey look! She's here again!"_

Atobe shifted his chin ever so slightly, gracing them with a still gaze – and it was as though the weight of the world had fallen carelessly onto their shoulders with but one glance from Atobe. All four males fell silent immediately, expressions quelled as they stared into his disapproving eyes.

"100 laps around the court. _Now._"

And all four ran off to do just that, because Atobe was _Atobe._

Watching the boys scramble away, Atobe felt a renewed sense of power, and stood up in a dramatic fashion. Kabaji fumbed to raise the umbrella higher to accommodate him.

He'd deal with the girl here and now.

* * *

Atobe, as it turned out, was not the only displeased person to be found on the courts that day.

Shishido gnashed his teeth together, before furiously gulping down the water in his water bottle. The plastic crinkled loudly under his tight grip, and even as water overflowed onto his neck, he ignored it – all the while, his gaze was fixated on the gate, where Choutarou spoke to that Touda (yes, he knew her, they were in the same damn class).

Those practicing around him widened their eyes at him, and shuffled away quickly; Shishido's temper was legendary, after all.

Shishido kept his glare going.

Touda, the damned girl, had literally come in _every day_ of practice this week, as though taking up Choutarou's time on Fridays wasn't enough anymore. Shishido had overheard one of their conversations before – and it had been a _nightmare._

Half the phrases were in Italian – something about…glissanis? Glissano? Gli…ah, right, glissandos. And about chords, and movements, and some other jumble of terms he didn't really understand.

In fact, there were a lot of things Shishido didn't understand – like why Choutarou insisted on devoting himself so wholeheartedly to the piano; wasn't tennis enough?

Also, he didn't understand why that girl had to come _every single day._ Yes, Shishido was well aware she had won the last two years for her division in the concours. Their homeroom teacher, after all, was the chair of the music department, and had an obvious, sickening favoritism for Touda. Right.

Touda, the girl who looked as if she didn't even have the time to _eat_ because she was too busy playing the piano, like some sick, twisted obsession slash addiction.

Shishido also knew the girl had taken it upon herself to make sure that Choutarou was successful – she, like so many before her, had fallen for Choutarou's talent and humbled demeanor. That was nice and all, team camaraderie and support all that good shit, he figured.

But if you asked him, Touda was taking things to a whole, _fucked up_ new level when she visited every practice, lunch period, and study hall.

As if that wasn't enough, Choutarou was off his game these days, too – when he used the scud serve these days, instead of speaking "Scud Serve" – as was right and normal and _good_ – Shishido caught him saying "Etude."

_Etude._

What in the _blazing hells_ was _etude_?

With an air of finality, Shishido finished crushing his water bottle, and hurled it to the side. Damn it all, he'd tell that girl off today!

Determination blazing in his eyes, Shishido rapidly walked forward-

-only to be cut off by Atobe, who waltzed into the area with all the air of a king taking the precious time to visit his commoner people.

"Ore-sama demands to know why you, an _outsider_, is in Ore-sama's courts," Atobe's prissy voice rang out, and Shishido rolled his eyes. Damn Atobe and his _wonderful_ timing – trust him to always soak up the spotlight like a stupid sponge.

* * *

Choutarou, on the other hand, visibly wilted in the irritation reflected in his Captain's voice; oh, this wasn't good.

Ayaka caught it, and barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Really, how could Choutarou possibly be so afraid of such a…prick? She watched through defiant eyes as Atobe practically _pranced_ closer, hair sparkling silver in the sunlight. Seriously - was there anything about this guy that _wasn't_ over-dramatic and atrociously over-the-top?

"Good afternoon to you too, _Atobe-san._" Ayaka replied back dryly, crossing her arms. "And if you don't mind, please refrain from rattling Choutarou's nerves so much – he needs all the concentration he can gather poured into the concours."

Atobe drew back, as if it were a _tragedy_ that Ayaka had dared to speak to him. "…And?" He now took to observing his nails.

Ayaka bristled. "Well, considering the fact that he didn't win last year because he broke his wrist _training for tennis_, perhaps you could be a little more _considerate_ this time around."

Choutarou paled.

"And?" Atobe repeated. "Silly little concours are not much of sacrifices, for the magnificent serve he developed. Isn't that so, Choutarou?"

For a moment, the second-year was remembered, and both pair of angry eyes turned upon him to make the reply. Choutarou stiffened, eyes widening and lips opening and closing – but nothing refused to escape save for empty air and a whole lot of _fear._ "I…Well…That is, I just-"

"Forget it," Ayaka snapped. "A wrist was not much of a _sacrifice_? Are you _insane_?"

"Would you quit being dramatic," Atobe sighed.

Ayaka's eyes bulged.

"It's not as if he can't use his wrist today – it was just a temporary strain, so stop acting as though he chopped off his whole hand." Atobe waved his hand carelessly in the air, as if to dismiss Ayaka's presence. "Besides. Tennis is certainly more noble than that frivolity you associate yourself with, girl."

"_Frivolity_? Do you know how _you_ look? Running around, hitting balls with nets? Has anyone taken the time to take a step back and look at what tennis _actually _is? You look like _a circus act_."

Atobe's eyes narrowed. "Watch your mouth, girl."

"Ever consider taking your own advice?"

For a moment, the two glared stonily at one another. Choutarou could swear he saw static passing between their eyes, and he gulped. He looked around frantically, looking for something, anything-

"_Senpai_!" he cried out, spotting Shishido walking leisurely about.

Shishido turned and crooked a grin on his lips, raising his hand in a: "Yo, Chou-…taro."

Shishido trailed off as he saw Atobe and Ayaka glaring at one another through the tennis court gates. He took one, perhaps two seconds to assess the situation, before making a quick u-turn and exiting quickly. Choutarou was a nice boy, really-

But getting between _Atobe_ and whoever he wanted to murder?

Not a good idea.

Choutarou crumpled as he watched Shishido walk away quickly.

"…Is that what you think, you bossy, manipulative captain?" Ayaka's shrill voice snapped Choutarou back to attention, and he swallowed thickly.

"Why yes, it is. Choutarou and Hiyoshi will head the tennis club in the near future – he needs to focus on tennis."

"Oh please, once he graduates school, tennis won't be a steady career."

Atobe sneered. "And you think fiddling away on a piano is? He'll be lucky to play on the streets for change."

Choutarou blushed a deep scarlet.

"He absolutely _would not._ He's much too talented – I guess that's something someone like _you_ wouldn't know."

"Your concerns are meaningless to Ore-sama's prowess. And tennis will be a much more lucrative activity than banging away on keys," he drawled, an air of superiority lacing his words.

"No, he'll realize that music is a far better choice – he has raw talent, and if he hones it just a bit more, he'll be brilliant!"

"He's already brilliant enough in tennis!"

Ayaka stomped her foot on the ground. "Whatever! Just keep your demanding, over-bearing, grabby paws off _my_ kouhai!" she shrieked, and emphasis placed on 'my.'

"_Your_ kouhai? He's _Ore-sama's_ kouhai, and Ore-sama doesn't like to share-"

"He's mine! And believe me, buddy, he agrees-"

"_Enough!"_ Choutarou roared, and everyone in the vicinity seemed to take a staggering step backwards.

Perhaps Choutarou was the _passive-aggressive_ type?

"If you two keep bickering like this, I'll drop _both_ things!" Tears forming in the corners of his eyes, Choutarou stormed off into the club room.

Ayaka blinked once, twice, before blinking in guilt. Had she gone too far? But-

"Do you see what you did?" Atobe's sharp voice cut into her thoughts, and Ayaka turned on him, teeth bared.

"What _I_ did? This is all your fault!"

"This is obviously _your_ fault, girl-"

"Listen, pal, I have a name, and it's not 'pal'! It's-"

"Ore-sama does not care for _your _name," Atobe sniffed.


	2. In What Twisted World

_**PREVIOUSLY, in Ch. 1:**_

_"This is obviously your fault, girl-"_

_"Listen, pal, I have a name, and it's not 'pal'! It's-"_

_"Ore-sama does not care for your name," Atobe sniffed._

* * *

"I'm just saying, your sudden hatred for Atobe-kun is completely manic."

Her friend pointed a pair of accusing chopsticks at her, and Ayaka pursed her lips.

"It is _not_ – I told you what he did to Chotuarou's wrist, didn't I?"

"Oh, come off it, you old hag – if you had the ability to improve Choutarou's piano with _temporary_ injury, you'd have done it, too!"

Ayaka made an affronted noise. "I would not have!"

Her friend rolled her eyes. "Keep lying to yourself, honey – you're only hurtin' yourself."

* * *

Steady, hazel eyes twitched once, twice, three times per every five seconds; a pale hand clenched tightly around a smooth, marble fountain pen began to tremble, and the metal tip began to tap almost _demonically_ against the desk beneath its surface.

'Clack. Clack. Clack…_Clack, clack, clack-_ **clackclackclackclack-**'

"_Kyaaaaa! Atobe-sama is just so hot!"_

"_Oh, the things I would do if that were mine – all miiiine-"_

"_Ah, such perfection – rich, charming, and so devilishly handsome-"_

"_I did this compatibility test online last night – and it said that Atobe-sama and I were 85 percent compatible? Isn't that divine?"_

Oh, for the love of-

_Really_?

In what twisted world were teenagers allowed to traipse around, adding a '-sama' to the end of some silly boy's name? In what twisted, _cruel reality_ did a self-pompous bastard call himself _Ore-sama_ and _get away with it_-?

Apparently, Ayaka noted, torn between dry humor and biting irritation, the very same world she existed in.

"_Ore-sama does not care for _your_ name,"_ he'd said.

In all her fifteen years, Ayaka was sure she'd never met anyone with enough bleeding arrogance to match Atobe Keigo – fictional, or real. To even think of the times when she'd adored him in the same way the rest of the female student population did now was humiliating; but then again, who _wouldn't_ fawn over Atobe Keigo?

Just in his first week at the school, he'd dominated over the freshman class with a stunning speech at the initiation ceremony; his father's unending wealth had completely renovated all of the sports facilities; not to mention, he'd completely wiped the floor with the entire tennis club – including the then-Captain.

Atobe was _born_ to be the king, it seemed, and even Ayaka had fallen for the ruse of crowns and thrones.

That is, until the prick had opened his mouth and begun to_ talk_; every word had shattered her delusions into another glittering, disappointed piece of broken dreams.

Back in second year, when she'd met Choutarou (and had, quite literally, been blown away by his talent), she'd been shocked to discover that such a talented pianist had been juggling between piano and tennis.

Ayaka distinctly remembered, to this day, the electric thrill upon pondering what might happen if, just if, Choutarou focused entirely on the piano – just the mere imagination of it had her shivering with excitement.

For the next year, she'd groomed him as her shining successor – as a lasting legacy she'd leave upon the Academy (it was a selfish sort of thing, to be honest). She'd seen it, then, as something that she could use to make a lasting impression upon the school even after she'd left. She'd helped him polish off certain techniques, stayed after school for hours to perfect a song with him-

He'd been like the little brother she'd never had, and she'd felt an instant kinship between them.

How could she not?

Ayaka was the top pianist in her own grade in the hallowed halls of Hyotei – and she didn't get there by dawdling around or natural-born talent; such a thing as _talent_, after all, only took one so far. It was when one took that talent, and combined it with hard work so devoted that it had the ability to _drown_ someone – it was only then, that they got anywhere at all.

But Choutarou – Choutarou, Ayaka was sure, was _all_ pure, raw talent, just sitting there, unformed-

Ayaka had been so sure that Choutarou would win. Teachers would nod their approval, students would fall at his feet in envy, and she, she would be there to pat his shoulder and buy him food as present-

That same night, Choutarou called her, all breathless grins and excitement: "_Senpai – I, I strained my wrist during tennis practice; it was to perfect this new technique, see? It's called the Scud Serve – it's awesome, and Atobe-buchou says I can easily make it onto the regulars' ranks with this! The doctor says I shouldn't exert my wrist for the next few weeks, though, and he, um – I was kind of banned from playing the piano for a week? So, um, I'm really really sorry, senpai, but I think I'll have to pull out of the concours-"_

Ayaka had been angry, and disappointed, and all sorts of furious with one goddamn Atobe Keigo for weeks, but then she'd gotten over it. What, after all, could she have done? It was something Choutarou had been so happy about, and Atobe had simply been acting as a responsible Captain, she'd supposed – but what still stung, even now, was that Chou-chan didn't even realize what Atobe had done.

That Atobe had damaged a pianist's precious wrists without a second, fleeting thought, because to him, Choutarou was a _tennis player_, not a musician.

_"Did you hear? Supposedly, he threw this amazing festival for Kabaji-kun, for his birthday…Isn't that so sweet?"_ one of the girls squealed again.

Ayaka felt something curdle in her stomach, and stood up loudly, slamming her hands on her desk and scraping the bottom of the chair along the floor. The girls hushed instantly, wide eyes turning to her.

Ayaka simply stormed out the door, quite enjoying the effect her swishing skirt and billowing blazer had on the now-silent room.

Instantly, murmurs arose once more.

_"What's up with her?"_

_"Dunno…"_

_"She probably remembered that she forgot to wipe a key on the piano or something…"_

* * *

And, truth be told, Ayaka _had_ been heading for the music rooms – just as she'd left the classroom, she'd realized that she'd left one of her notebooks for her following classes in the room.

Ah, ah – such a pain, she mused, but hurried along anyways.

* * *

As fate would have it, Choutarou's music room was located in such a convenient area that Ayaka could walk by it on the way to her own room – a fact she most often took advantage of, peeping in on his practices whenever she had time. On this particular day, as she strolled by his door, her ears picked up on a quiet melody from inside-

-she paused to listen.

The notes were hit with surprising accuracy, even for Choutarou – the timing was absolutely brilliant, Ayaka noted with delight, and the sheer drive behind each key nearly had her _swooning_.

This playing was _amazing_, even for Choutarou's standards –

Prokofiev's Third Piano Concerto, hm?

Since when had he developed such a powerful style? Oh, Ayaka had just _known_ that the song would be perfect for him!

Excited, and not without a surge of swelling pride, Ayaka nodded along to the flawless rhythm – the use of appropriate pressuring behind the keys, the sharp, defined staccatos and the smooth connected slurs…

She couldn't even imagine herself playing this any better – or, perhaps, even _as well_.

Ayaka burst into the room, finding herself breathless from listening to such a beautiful performance; thousands of compliments were struggling to push to the front from her mind, crows of praise on the tip of her tongue.

"Chou-chan! That's was…that was…just simply _brilliant_! That was bordering genius, Chou-chan, _genius!_" Ayaka clapped, walking rapidly over to the piano's player, who had now stilled his hands above the keys. "You never told me that you'd gotten this good! Chou-chan, that first place prize is in the…bag…"

And then, the person turned around in his seat, amused smile and raised brows.

Ayaka felt her heart stop.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she registered the pure, unadulterated arrogance that swam off of him in waves, distinguished by the irritating mole on the corner of his-

_Atobe Keigo_-?

…Oh, no.

No.

No, no, _no_ – this was a sheer nightmare-

Horror dawned upon Ayaka's expression, near-revulsion lining her gaze, lips parted in shock and terror.

"Ore-sama accepts your compliments, but It's nothing Ore-sama doesn't know already," Atobe's smirk grew even wider, and in the back of her head, Ayaka marveled at how wide his lips even had the ability of stretching.

"_You_?" was all Ayaka managed to breathe, incredulity lacing her word. Atobe readjusted himself comfortably, draped across the piano keys, head propped on his hand – the entire posture screamed of unimpressed casuality.

Lips parted into a grin, revealing two rows of perfectly pearl white teeth.

"Yes…?"

Atobe's amusement was palpable.

Poor, silly girl – was there ever any doubt that Atobe _wasn't_ flawlessly trained in the art of the piano? For the love of all things Chanel, he was _Atobe Keigo_; there was no activity associated with the upper crust that he did not have _perfectly mastered._

"You…play…?" was all Ayaka could manage to squeak out.

For a moment, Ayaka was caught between denial, disbelief, and tragic sadness. The prick – who had, quite mercilessly, mocked the beauty of the piano she so loved – was able to play with such beauty, and talent. Again, Ayaka questioned the hysteric cruelty of such a world that allowed such things to happen.

"Seriously? _Seriously_? What the hell," Ayaka spluttered, one hand rising to gesture towards the piano. "It's like you're not even a real person anymore! Who the hell- Where in the hell did you even come from? Did you just magically spawn yourself, too?"

Atobe combed his hand through his hair once, never once wiping that infuriating smirk off his face. "This piece was quite easy, by the way," he mentioned offhandedly, hand rising so that he could nonchalantly observe his nails. "Ore-sama had stopped by to see if Choutarou was here, and found the room devoid aside from this piece of music, here. Ore-sama decided to give it a try; perhaps you should use this to teach beginners…?"

Slowly, his eyes rose to meet Ayaka's, which he found, with a surge of satisfaction, had widened into the size of platters.

"Oh, and tell Choutarou he should report to practice by four – he's never been very adept with remembering his priorities," Atobe said at last, rising and sweeping past Ayaka. He paused by the door one last time, to offer her a vicious little smile, before sauntering down the hall.

And then, in a fit of infuriating frustration, she shrieked-

Atobe's answering laugh resounded from down the hall.

Choutarou gulped nervously as he quietly edged closer towards the figure slamming away at the piano – it was like watching a girl possessed, he swore, as he watched the flail of limbs practically attacking the instrument. The image gave a striking hesemblance to the demon-possessed girl in the horror movie he'd watched with Shishido-senpai the other day; by the end of the movie, the girl had spontaneously combust in a mass of dark evil.

"A-Ayaka-senpai?"

She'd been at this play-the-piano-or-die marathon since school ended at 3:05 PM. It was now… Choutarou checked his watch: 7:30 PM. Ayaka-senpai hadn't stopped, or paused her fingers gliding over the piano keys once, except for a time or two when she had changed songs. That, or when the sheet music fluttered off of the piano from the sheer trembling.

When she reached the end of her music binder, Choutarou had sighed in relief – only to 'eep!' with horror when she began to play back commonly known songs, churning them into piano keys in her head.

Choutarou had hit his limit when she began to play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' in a murderous, drawn-out, low octave – it very much sounded akin to a prelude to a horror film, now.

Choutarou sighed, before tentatively reaching out a hand to shake Ayaka's shoulder gently. She immediately stilled, snapping her head to glare at Choutarou. "What?" she hissed, and Choutarou gulped again.

"Um…th-the school's going to c-close…Ayaka-senpai…so…we should, ahhh, get…out…?" Choutarou whimpered, backing towards the wall.

Ayaka's blazing eyes were trained on him in a second, and Choutarou stiffened in fear. He'd never quite seen her like this – then again, he'd never seen _anybody_ like this, including Shishido-senpai, even when Mukahi-senpai had accidentally landed him on one of his 'moonsaults.'

Ayaka soon caught herself before her anger at a certain tennis team captain grew to disproportional lengths, and heaved out a great sigh. Her fingers slipped from the keys, and she watched in confusion as Choutarou seemed to mouth a 'thank you' to the ceiling.

"I guess you're right," she acquiesced, wincing as she then-realized how sore her fingers were. "I'm, uh – I'm gonna get going now. Sorry, Chou, we'll practice tomorrow?"

Choutarou nodded vigorously, as if there were a time constraint on how long Ayaka-senpai would wait before resuming the 'devil playing,' as he'd come to label her prior playing style.

* * *

"Atobe-senpai?" Choutarou repeated, trying for what seemed to be the hundredth time to call out to his captain, who now turned to grace his contented smirk – which had stayed in place since morning practice began that day – onto the younger boy.

Choutarou blinked in mild confusion; one senpai was stewing in what seemed to be the coming of the apocalypse, and the other acted as though he'd been shot with a spark of a happy drug. Oh, the woes of a kouhai.

"What is it, Choutarou?" Atobe asked, his smirk morphing into a wide grin when he looked over Choutarou's shoulder.

When Choutarou craned his neck to peer at what Atobe was smiling at, he was surprised to see Ayaka standing at the gates. In fact, he was more surprised that she hadn't immediately waved him over, yet – she wasn't exactly the patient, waiting type. All Choutarou hoped was that it didn't have anything to do with her frightening mood, and Atobe's – which was frightening for an altogether different reason.

In fact, Choutarou really didn't even want to know; he was sure he'd fare better, mentally, if he didn't.

And, well, Atobe, in the meantime, looked very much like the cat that had devoured the canary at last. He'd put her in place – he always did. He was the emperor (stupid Sanada, taking his rightful birth name), the prince (stupid bratling, taking his _other_ rightful birth name), and the king, all at once. People attached a 'sama' to the end of his name of their own free volition – he was a fucking _god_, at this school (again, he thought back to Yukimura's nickname of being the 'child of God,' and found a bit of irritation lingering there, too – why were people so intent on stealing his names?).

"What is it, Choutarou?" Atobe repeated, smile still undiminished.

Choutarou blanched at the wide smile.

"Um, well – I just wanted to know if you were alright, since you were…smiling…so much."

Atobe's smirk was on the verge of tearing into a maniacal grin as he replied, "Good things always happen to Ore-sama."

**EL CHAPTER FIN**

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	3. Debts to Be Reaped

__**A/N:** CHAPTERS ONE AND TWO HAVE BEEN REWRITTEN, _AGAIN._ So read those over for some more improved writing, hahaha! And you'll see a few differences in this chapter from the original, again, but the overall storyline is all intact. Please read, and tell me what you think of the new version? Ehehehe.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own PoT.

* * *

_In…out….in…out…_

Ayaka continued this breathing exercise for the next minute or two before cranking her head sideways, effectively easing out a sore spot. She grimaced; ah, ah, today was _really_ not a good day to be getting kinks all over her joints.

Today was the day of the quarter-finals of the concours, after all.

As the returning winner, she was one of the players most expected to win – but she hadn't won the past two concours by relaxing and relying on her prior knowledge. Everything, she'd come to learn, was all about just _how hard_ one worked, because talent didn't carry far enough for victory. Talent only brought one to the starting line – and from there, it was all about hard work and dedication. And _that_, Ayaka had in overwhelming supply.

She shifted through her piece once more: Concerto No. 5 in E Major (Emperor). Yes, it was a concerto, certainly meant to be played by more than one silly girl and her lone piano. But when she'd heard the piece, it had been so devastatingly beautiful, that she couldn't help but to want to play it – so she'd gone and gotten permission from the judges to alter it as she saw fit. Besides that, each player in the competition was allowed one accompanist, and so Ayaka's partner – Minami Lina, a close friend of hers – would cover what her fingers couldn't reach.

And speaking of Lina, where was that girl, anyways? It was two hours before the start of the concours, but players everywhere were already beginning to warm up and practice.

Ayaka's turn was at 10:10 AM.

She and Lina had made plans to rehearse, now, but-

-before Ayaka had a chance to complete the thought, the doors to her practice room practically flew open to reveal a heaving Choutarou, obviously out of breath. Ayaka stood up at once in worry. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Is it nerves? Oh, silly Chou, no need to worry-"

Choutarou heaved a few more breaths.

"-I've seen the rest of your competition, Chou, there's nothing to worry about-"

"Senpai!"

Ayaka paused, brows raised at the hectic tone in Choutarou's voice. "I just heard from some people walking down the hall; Minami-senpai got in a small accident on the way here so she's in the hospital right now-"

Ayaka felt the floor pulling out from beneath her, pulse quickening, and gasped. Thoughts flitted through one after the other – the injury of her friend, worry, the stunning realization that her accompanist wouldn't be here, as shallow and selfish as that thought was- "Oh, my god – _oh my god._ I should- I should go check, right? I'll-"

"No, no – she's fine, but her fingers were sprained," Choutarou assured gently. "Which means she won't be able to play today."

Relief, then renewed panic.

"…Well, shit." Ayaka muttered.

"Senpai!" Choutarou admonished.

Without her accompanist, her piece would fall to pieces – not to mention, points are automatically docked at the absence of the _required_ accompanying musician. If she didn't find a new accompanist, Ayaka was _screwed;_ and as per rules of the competition, she wasn't allowed to request another participant in the concours to be her accompanist. That ruled out almost all of the musicians she'd have considered asking to begin with – and the fact that she needed a pianist who could play well without practice ruled out the remaining ones.

The world felt blurry.

"Ayaka-senpai, breathe!" she heard Choutarou exclaim, and remembered to do just that.

The blurriness went away.

"I…I'm going to go- um. Find. Someone." Was all Choutarou heard, before Ayaka ran for the doors and down the hall.

* * *

Fate, it seemed, had this twisted way of screwing her life in such convoluted ways, then simply sitting back on its heels and _laughing_ at her desperation. Ayaka walked down the hall, reciting the names of all the talented pianists she knew in her mind, and crossing them off right after as she thought of reasons why they couldn't stand in as her accompanist. Some of them were away on a field trip; others had dropped out of the concours, and to ask them for help would be incredible senseless; still others were disgruntled musicians whom hadn't been given entrance to the concours to begin with.

She'd found one or two eligible musicians, only to find that they were taking exams that day.

There were approximately over four hundred students in the music department – and how was it that today, there was not a _single_ person who could help her? This was bordering on manic ridiculousness; but then again, life _had_ been pushing her down and kicking her while she was still on the floor, these days, she noted with dry, caustic humor.

Could it be possible that she'd actually lose, today?

"_Hey, did you see Atobe-kun today? He looked so cool during tennis practice-_" Ayaka heard from somewhere around the corner, and promptly froze.

Atobe.

Atobe Keigo, whom had effortlessly played Choutarou's competition piece without so much a bat of an eye, whose music positively shook her to her very core. As the realization began to dawn and settle in, Ayaka began to bounce lightly on her feet, considering, judging, weighing even the smallest _possibility_ of asking-

Ayaka groaned.

Did she really have to-

And then, she caught a sight of the staggering '9:40' on her watch, and sighed.

Yes, she did.

Ayaka took off for the tennis courts.

* * *

Today, today was an absolutely _glorious_ day, Atobe mused, smirking winningly into the faint, soft rays of sunlight that filtered through the umbrella Kabaji held over his head. It was, after all, the prime weather for tennis matches, and he'd seen to it that such weather was not wasted; from below him, the courts thundered with the sounds of rackets clanging against fuzzy yellow balls, and the thwacks as said objects bounced lightly on the green floors.

All around from behind the safety of metal fences, the deafening screams of _Kyaaaa, Atobe-sama!_ rung pleasantly through his eardrums. Occasionally, a lone fan did manage to somehow clamber over the metal gates, but at that point, Gakuto managed to aim a well-placed 'accidental' lob by her head, or Shishido (who seemed particularly irate toay) shot a ball straight past her hair, and she'd rush back to safety.

Even _Jiroh_ had kept himself awake, that day, and was playing quite heartily against a determined Hiyoshi.

Atobe observed all of this proudly from his throne atop the bleachers.

This was the empire he'd built in a day – greater than Rome could ever have been. Gods, he thinks – he really _should_ write an autobiography soon, and give the world the great gift of a peek into his brilliant mind.

His pleasant calm is ruined, however, when the actual _gates_ slam open with a metal clang, and a daring female steps through. For a moment, Atobe wonders if it's a fan, until he takes in the expression that is most certainly _not_ enamored, and recognizes the face. And upon recognition, all Atobe really wants to do is wave a lazy hand at one of his servants to drag her straight out the way she came from, but-

-good kings always gave their subjects a chance.

And so, Atobe gave Ayaka a thin, generous smile, and swept a majestic arm to the side, as though saying 'Welcome to my kingdom – isn't it glorious?'

Ayaka marches up with the grimness of a leader who _knows_ her country will lose, and has come to make negotiations for the war to end with severe – but not devastating – losses to her own kind.

Atobe's smirk widens just a little bit more.

* * *

When Ayaka reached Atobe's perch – all the way at the goddamn _top_ of the towering levels of bleachers, the stupid prick – she paused, wondering just how to introduce the topic at hand. Atobe doesn't help, simply smiling _arrogantly_, leaned back, with some hulking boy holding a vast umbrella over his head. For a moment, Ayaka questions the sanity of such a universe again, but then remembers-

"Um. Hi, Atobe-kun," Ayaka manages to say, and tries a smile.

Atobe's reply is an unwavering smirk, with the sharp arch of one brow.

"I was- so, how's your day going?" Ayaka says, and smiles again, cursing her own cowardliness in the inside of her mind.

Atobe, for his part, knew she was stalling – that really, she did not come to the courts, and climb _all these stairs_, just to ask him about how his brilliant day had been going. That she was here for something bigger, and that she simply didn't have the nerve to say it. And Atobe _relished_ in this feeling of power.

"Quite well, thank you," he replied smoothly. "As all of Ore-sama's days tend to go." He brought up an elegant hand to observe the curve of his nails, as though its perfection fascinated him. "If you're here simply to bask in Ore-sama's prowess, go stand over there with the rest of your kind."

At this point, Atobe's finger pointed loosely at the hoard of _shrieking girls_, crammed up against the fence as though there lay all their dreams and desires on the other side. It looked like a sea of _rabid animals_, all fighting to get in, and she suppressed a shudder.

Ayaka faltered.

It was do or die, wasn't it?

"Will you-" she licked her lips. "Will you be my accompanist for my competition?"

Atobe's smirk, she noted with vicious satisfaction, fell from his lips at once, as did his hand from the air. And then, she realized that really, she wasn't in any position to be proud of the fact that she'd wiped his smirk from his face, and Ayaka resumed feeling a horrid sense of embarrassment and desperation.

Seconds ticked by in agony, and while Ayaka _knew_ that only a few seconds had passed, she couldn't help this dreaded feeling that it had been _hours_, instead. And while Atobe stood in the cool shade provided by his lumbering man-servant, Ayaka stood directly in line of the sun, and she could feel a bead of sweat forming on the side of her temple-

"Move out of Ore-sama's sunlight, ahn?" are Atobe's first words to her following her request.

Numbly, Ayaka obeyed, wondering in the back of her mind if Atobe hadn't heard what she'd asked him.

But then, Ayaka saw a tell-tale smirk forming on his lips, and _knew_ that this bastard had heard. He'd simply chosen to ignore it, as he always did when he felt like it. She fought down the pang of irritation, and continued to stand awkwardly on the bleachers, fidgeting-

"Ore-sama _is_ quite brilliant at tennis, hm?" Atobe then says, and Ayaka swallows down a choke. "You couldn't resist. And Ore-shama shall be generous – all _you_ have to do, plebeian girl, is just ask nicely. _On your knees._"

A pause.

"Oh, and address Ore-sama as _Atobe-sama_."

And for one delirious, hysteric moment, Ayaka seriously considers doing just that – she'd sweep to her knees, and call this guy _Atobe-sama_, if it means that he'd willingly walk over and save her in the concours. But then, Ayaka remembers that, oh, she's a human being, and that perhaps she should have at least _a little bit_ of pride for herself.

Ayaka smiled thinly.

"You know what? It's…fine. Just- _it's fine_," she ground out, and promptly turned around to stomp down the steps of the bleachers.

"Have a nice day, commoner!" she hears being sang behind her, and she feels this terrible urge to march back up the steps and scream _"My dad is a lawyer, asshole, and my mother is a news cast anchor, and I'm rich too!"_

But, of course, when one thought about how rich _Atobe_ was – which was so wealthy that the word 'rich' seemed almost laughable – one couldn't do anything but roll their eyes and continue stomping off.

* * *

"Touda Ayaka? Touda Ayaka. I repeat, _Touda Ayaka_," the P.A. system droned in a voice that implied that whomever was speaking didn't care much for the event on hand. The auditorium of filled seats was abuzz, some wondering where on earth the contestant could be, while others were simply content with chatting up the time they had before the lights would dim once more. But, really – who'd have thought that the reigning champion would be late?

The stage was empty, and the piano lay stone still, as though waiting laboriously for its player to come up and grace its keys with the music it was meant to play. The judges, lined before a black-clothed table, varied in expression, from curiosity to disapproval to indifference.

"Touda Ayaka, this is the last call – it will be considered an automatic forfeit if-"

"I'm here!" a voice, half-panting, half delirious, calls over the rows of the audience from the back of the auditorium, where the door is held open to reveal a girl heavily out of breath. Choutarou turned around in his own seat, relief filled in his eyes once he saw Ayaka-senpai; for a moment there, he'd really thought that she'd been unable to find an accompanist, after all!

Ayaka half-walked, half-rushed to her place on stage, and when Choutarou saw no other person following after her, felt his heart drop. Oh, no – she hadn't been able to find an accompanist, after all!

Ayaka, with some effort, managed to ignore the rumbling whispers that swept the crowd, some in disbelief, others in humor, and sat herself carefully on the seat. She bowed lightly to the judges and apologized for her tardiness, before promptly placing her fingers over the keys-

"Player 24?" one of the judges leaned forward to speak into her mic.

Ayaka paused.

"Yes?"

"Where is your accompanist?"

Ayaka promptly froze, fighting down a grimace from her features. Instead, she wondered briefly if she should simply state that her accompanist was not here today, or go into an explanation of _why._ Would she gain some pity from the judges if they knew that Lina was injured, she wondered, and flinched when she noticed that one of the judges was eyeing her in harsh disapproval.

Ouch.

Choutarou, she noticed, looked more stricken than _she_, eyes wide in terror, sweating so hard it was as though he were playing a tennis match. He tensed, and screwed his eyes shut, because he couldn't _bear_ to watch this massacre-

-at that moment, the double doors at the back of the auditorium both simultaneously burst open, and Ayaka felt herself give a little jump at the sudden noise. Sunlight swept into the darkened room – Ayaka felt practically _blind_ at this point, trying to squint into the doorway – and a shadowy figure occupied the entrance area. A dramatic pause passed, before:

"Ore-sama, Touda Ayaka's accompanist, is here."

Atobe takes a step inside, and though the doors are still opened, illuminating his shadow, she can see his features more clearly. He has that telltale smirk of his, and one hand is poised to-

_Snap_.

Ah, there it is.

And as if on cue, half the girls in the auditorium burst out screaming his name, and the remaining students clap so thunderously that it drowns out any sound in the room. The judges, in the meantime – specialists invited to their school for this occasion – look around, eyes wide, and their expressions are ones of sheer bewilderment. One of the judges lean into the one next to her to shout "What the bloody hell is _wrong_ with this school?" over the noise of the clapping.

As Atobe walks slowly down the aisle, blinding bright light behind him, walking _slowly_ on _purpose_ because he knows it gives him emphasis, Ayaka can swear that he's practically wearing a pair of wings on his back. Because in that moment, as ridiculous, and silly as it was, Atobe was certainly her Prince Charming, and she'd bloody well call him "Atobe-sama" after this.

* * *

Atobe hadn't spontaneously decided that he _liked_ the Touda girl, or anything, to come over and help her. No, he was simply being the divinely generous person that he was; well, that, and a business man. After all, Hyotei's social politics was all about leverage and power plays, and Atobe _knew_ that helping her out a little here could mean quite the rewards for him later.

And, as much as some people believed otherwise, Atobe wasn't _heartless._ In fact, he was actually quite kind and generous; and he'd seen the sheer _desperation_ in Touda's eyes before, and he supposed that helping her out here today couldn't necessarily hurt, now could it. Besides, he thought, walking down the aisle to the rhythm of claps and cheers, the people _loved_ him.

It was practically community service that he was doing, here.

He took his place at the second piano, and with one last smirk towards the audience, then to Touda, began the song.

Ayaka's eye twitched.

Leave it to him to give the cue for when the piece was to begin, as if _he_ was the actual competitor.

But, hey – if he wanted to parade around school wearing her underwear and play on her piano and throw tennis balls at her for fun, she'd have let him do those things too, at this moment.

* * *

After the competition, Ayaka sat backstage on a chair, leaned over and staring quietly at the floor. She was attempting to soothe her nerves after such a rattling performance – not to mention, get over the shock that came over her once more when she'd heard Atobe play. It had taken _everything_ not to stop her own playing just so that she could listen to his playing – and that wasn't quite the best feeling in the world, in the middle of a competition.

She saw a pair of polished, and obviously expensive, shoes enter her line of vision and stop in front of her.

Ayaka looked up.

She smiled gratefully at Atobe, then, and felt a wash of warm, fuzzy feelings take over her stomach. Sure, she thought he was an irritating prick half the time, but today's actions had spoken volumes more than his words – perhaps, she mused, he wasn't such a bad guy, after all.

He'd certainly played _her_ knight in shining armor today.

"Starting today, you shall be Ore-sama's personal assistant – Ore-sama has tennis practice starting at six in the morning. Be prompt," he ordered imperiously, and walked away just as quickly as he had come.

Ayaka felt her jaw promptly drop.

She should've known it was too good to be true.

**CHAPTER FIN**

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